His expression unreadable, Dalziel held her gaze for a pregnant moment, then straightened. “Consider it done. The grammar school will have records. I’ll get whatever there is in them sent down.”
Letitia beamed. “Excellent.”
Dalziel looked less pleased. “Is there anything else?”
His servile tone suggested he fully expected to be asked to supply cream buns for their next meeting. Seeing Letitia’s eyes start to narrow, Christian stepped in—before she could take his ex-commander up on his unvoiced offer. “I’ve sent word to Justin—he’ll come down to London tonight, to the club.”
Dalziel looked at him and nodded. “I’ll whisk him away tomorrow night. It might be useful to have him at our meeting tomorrow afternoon.”
Letitia rose, gathering her reticule. “Have you learned anything else about Randall?”
“Not yet.” Dalziel met Christian’s eyes as they both got to their feet. “What’s rather more surprising is the answers I’m not getting.” He didn’t elaborate, but nodded to them both. “I’ll see you tomorrow at four.”
Christian followed Letitia from the office. As they emerged into the corridor outside the anteroom, he murmured, “Hexham, hmm? Yet another man of mystery.”
Letitia smiled, but refused to say more.
She was not smiling later that afternoon when they arrived at the offices of Griswade, Griswade, Meecham and Tappit in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to be informed that, yes, while the solicitors had been notified of the unexpected demise of Mr. Randall, the partner who dealt with his estate—Mr. Meecham—was presently away attending another client in Scotland and wouldn’t be back until late that night.
Letitia subjected the head clerk, a wizened individual, to her most haughty stare. “Can’t someone—Griswade, Griswade, or Tappit, for instance—read the will in Meecham’s absence?”
The clerk cast a nervous glance at the closed doors around his station. “They could, ma’am—but they’ve declined.”
“Declined?”
Before matters grew too fraught, Christian stepped from behind Letitia to stand alongside her at the railing behind which the clerk was perched at his raised desk. “Waiting for Meecham’s return seems an unnecessary delay, given the will is unlikely to be complex. Randall was buried nearly a week ago.”
Again the clerk glanced around, then he leaned nearer and lowered his voice. “It was the runner that did it. All ready to come and read the will after the funeral, Mr. Tappit was, as was right and proper, until that red-breast turned up on the doorstep and demanded to see it.”
Letitia stiffened.
“Did he see it?” Christian quickly asked. He grasped Letitia’s elbow.
The clerk sniffed. “Of course not. Mr. Tappit and Mr. Griswade both told him no—and when he pushed and pestered, telling them it was a case of foul murder and all, well, they decided it would be better—more appropriate—to wait until Mr. Meecham got back and let him handle it, he being the one who knew the client and his affairs.”
Christian squeezed Letitia’s elbow in warning; it sounded as if Meecham was the one they needed to see anyway. “Very well.” He fixed the clerk with a hard gaze. “Please convey to your masters that once Meecham returns, the reading of Mr. Randall’s will cannot be further delayed. Its contents are, unsurprisingly, of pressing interest to Lady Randall, and her friends.”
He imbued the last words with quiet significance.
Beside him, Letitia, her spine ramrod straight, looked down her aristocratic nose at the clerk. “Please tell Mr. Meecham that I will expect to see him tomorrow morning. I, and Lord Dearne, will be expecting him.”
The clerk all but curtsied in his fluster. “Indeed, my lady. Of course, my lady. I’ll be sure to tell him.”
Christian caught the clerk’s eye as he stepped back from the rail and uttered just one word. “Do.”
Letitia swung around and he released her; he fell into step protectively behind her as, head high, she made her exit.
Chapter 10
Later that evening Christian sat in Letitia’s parlor, sipping brandy while she sipped tea. On the sofa opposite, Hermione sat idly dreaming, while beside her Agnes industriously knotted a fringe.
It was a quiet moment, one to savor at the end of a long day.
He glanced at Letitia beside him. Relaxed, she’d slipped off her slippers and drawn her feet up beneath her skirts. Agnes had primmed her lips at the informality, but hadn’t said anything. For himself, he was pleased that Letitia had patently reverted to her long-ago unconsciousness of him.
After considering those long, curled legs for several moments, he let his gaze travel slowly upward, to her face. As she sipped, he realized her mind was not as relaxed as her limbs; her gaze hard and sharp, her eyes were fixed unseeing on the rug. It wasn’t their previous interlude on said rug she was mentally reviewing; the evolving situation over Randall—the continuing revelations that underscored how little she’d known him—was seriously bothering her.
Understandably, yet there wasn’t anything she could do about it, which was what, he suspected, lay behind her suppressed ire.
Having to swallow the delay over the reading of Randall’s will, even if only for a day, and the further irritations of Mellon having—without her knowledge or consent—taken it upon himself to inform Randall’s solicitors, and Barton’s never-ending presence outside the house, had contributed to the pressure building within her.
That, in part, was why, instead of parting from her after their return from the city and going on to his clubs, he’d stayed by her side. She’d been stunned when he’d suggested accompanying her on her afternoon drive in the park.
As he’d expected, his presence beside her had effectively hauled the dowagers’ and sharp-eyed matrons’ minds from all interest in her brother. He hadn’t had to do anything, simply sit beside her and smile at those who nodded, and thoughts of marriage had replaced thoughts of murder in all the relevant female minds.
Except hers, of course.
Nevertheless, she was too experienced not to see what he’d done. To his surprise, the moment she’d realized, she’d grown a touch flustered; he’d glimpsed consternation in her eyes, an unexpected crack in her usually polished composure.
She’d seen him looking, noticing, had dragged in a breath, and the moment had passed. She’d continued dealing with her peers with her customary air—and had largely ignored him.
Yet even though she doubtless suspected he had other, ulterior motives—such as introducing the concept of he and she as a possible match to the pertinent part of the ton—she’d still been grateful for what he’d achieved. To her mind, any topic of gossip was better than the murder, even if that gossip was about her.
She’d been grateful enough to invite him to dine, albeit grudgingly.
He’d accepted, not solely because one night apart had, at least for him, proved separation enough, but also because he knew that it was at times like these that she—her temper—most needed distraction. That she most needed someone about who could distract her.
Agnes, shrewd as could be and a Vaux herself, seemed as aware as he of the brewing storm. She studied Letitia’s face, then said, “At least that solicitor will be here tomorrow, and we’ll have the matter of the will settled and done with. One thing out of the way.”
Letitia roused herself. “Indeed. Assuming he actually arrives.”
“He will.” Christian caught her eye as she glanced at him. “We might learn of friends or associates through Randall’s bequests. We should definitely gain a better understanding of his current finances, enough to know if there’s any hint of a motive there.”
“And you’ll learn who inherits this house.” Agnes started to pack up her fringe. “Which is a not unimportant detail, especially when you have the likes of Mellon to deal with.”
Letitia raised her brows. “There is that.”
“What will you do,” Hermione asked, “when the murderer’s found and the dust settles? Will
we keep living here?”
Letitia tilted her head. “I don’t know.”
Christian kept his lips firmly shut.
“I’ll have to think about it.” Draining her cup, she reached out and set it back on the tray. She looked at Agnes as her aunt stood. “Are you going up?”
“Yes—it’s time.” Agnes looked at Hermione as Christian got to his feet. “Come along, miss. Make your good-nights and you can help me up the stairs.”
Hermione smiled sleepily; she’d already smothered a yawn or two. Uncurling her legs, she stood. “Good night, L’titia. ’Night, Christian.” Then she focused on Christian.
“Or should I call you Dearne?”
He smiled. “Christian will do.” Hermione might be bidding fair to becoming an unconscionable minx, but she’d always been on his side.
Given the way Agnes was eyeing him—not openly censorious but prepared to be so—he’d need all the support he could get.
He half expected Agnes to ask when he was leaving; as he had no intention of doing so, that would have proved awkward, but just as he was bracing for some such pointed query, she humphed and nodded a good-night. “I’ll no doubt see you in the morning, Dearne—at the reading of the will.”
If he had his way, she’d see him at the breakfast table, but that might be pushing the boundaries too far. He bowed and murmured his good-nights.
Once Agnes and Hermione had left and the door was closed once more, he sat again, relaxed once more beside Letitia.
She was staring into space again, brooding. He studied her face, considered what he could see in it, heard again the subtle warning in Agnes’s tone. Despite her eccentric, old lady ways, Letitia’s aunt was neither blind nor slow. She knew what he wanted, and didn’t disapprove—just as long as he did right by Letitia.
This time.
Agnes, he realized, scanning his recent memories of her—of when he’d seen her, always with Letitia there with them—felt strongly protective toward her niece. Which seemed odd. He wouldn’t have thought Letitia needed protecting….
The knowledge came to him in a wave, simply washed over and through him—and he saw what he should have from the first. Something that explained her odd attack of nerves in the park that afternoon. Something that meant he would have to tread carefully—very carefully—if he wanted to reclaim her.
Agnes was right. Letitia was vulnerable—horribly, critically, emotionally vulnerable. Over him. Because of him.
He’d hurt her badly once, unintentionally perhaps, but that hadn’t made the hurt any less.
Now he was back, he could hurt her again—that was what lay behind Agnes’s warning.
He wasn’t above taking an eccentric old lady’s warning to heart.
Especially as it suggested Letitia still felt for him all she ever had.
He glanced at her, and this time understood the responsibility he hadn’t recognized all those years ago. When he’d gone off to war, gone off to play spies, and had left her to fend on her own.
Guilt tightened his chest, but guilt wouldn’t help either of them.
He was waiting, watching her, when eventually she turned her head and looked at him. Searched his face, then arched her brows.
Her message was clear: While she wouldn’t summon Mellon and have him shown out, neither would she make the first move.
Before, long ago, she almost always had.
But now, if he wanted her, he had to ask. He had to make his desire plain, lay it out, no veils, no screens, before her.
And pray she would welcome it.
Raising a brow in reply, he reached for her hand.
Got to his feet and drew her to hers, waited while she slid her feet into her slippers. If he kissed her on the sofa, they might never leave it. And Mellon would still be about.
When she straightened, he brought her hand to his lips. His eyes locked on hers, he kissed her fingertips, then turned her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Let them linger just long enough for her to feel their heat, then he lifted his head. With his hold on her hand, he tugged gently, drew her a step closer, then, still holding her captive with his eyes, bent his head and pressed his lips to her wrist.
To her leaping pulse.
Letitia tried to keep her mental distance, knew she should, but she was already enthralled. By the warmth in his gray eyes, by the banked fire behind them. By the touch of his lips on her sensitive skin, commanding yet not demanding, luring rather than seducing.
Before, she’d always been so eager—so damnably impatient that he’d never had to work. Never had to tempt her.
His lips moved over her skin, hot with promise but gently, until an equally gentle flush rose under it, and beckoned him further.
Lifting his head just a little, he drew her closer still, let her hand fall to his shoulder as his arm slid around her and he drew her, still gently, in. Against him, but she wasn’t trapped. Wasn’t crushed. He bent his head again—stopped just before their lips met. Waited a heartbeat so she could sense his hunger—and hers—then he closed the gap and fed her.
Soft kisses. Like gentle rain on parched ground they made her bloom—coaxed her senses to slowly unfurl. Teased her nerves with the promise of paradise until she parted her lips on a sigh.
He didn’t enter, instead drew back. Whispered across her lips. “I want you, and you want me. For tonight, let that be enough.”
She blinked up at him, wondering, knowing he wanted much more. “But will that be enough?”
The words drifted from her lips to his.
He kissed her again, a tantalizing touch.
And didn’t answer.
Instead, he murmured, his voice deep and low, “Invite me to your bed. Let me come to you there. Let me lie with you there…and let what will be, be.”
That, she could agree to without reservation. What would be would be regardless.
Her eyes on his, she drew back. Caught his hand as she did, then stepped back, turned and led him from the room.
Led him up the stairs to her bedchamber, waited while he shut the door, then led him to the end of her bed.
Turning to him, she waited. In the flickering light of the candle Esme had left on her dressing table, she met his eyes. Felt rather than saw the desire in the gray—for once took the time to savor it.
His thumb moved over her fingers, stroking, then he released her hand, stepped closer. Raising both hands, he framed her face, tipped it up to his. Looked down for one long moment, searching her eyes, then he bent his head and kissed her.
Longingly.
Hungrily, yet his hunger was reined. Greedily, letting her taste his wanting, yet holding back, not taking.
She wouldn’t have stopped him if he had, yet this time she was content to follow. To let him show her what he wished.
To let him deepen the kiss degree by degree, until a tide of response, of a longing to match his, rose up and swamped her. Swept away both restraint and thought. Left only sensation and feeling to cling to.
She clung, and her soul rejoiced.
Christian held to the slow pace, to the slow steady beat of his drum, held her to that so he had a chance to show her the other side of passion’s coin.
So he could weave what he felt for her into each caress, invest each slow kiss with his need of her. Let her taste his desire on his lips, on his tongue, let her feel it in the slow, steady claiming.
She grew restless, reached for him. Releasing her face, he caught her hands, stepped into her as he eased her arms behind her. Anchoring both her wrists in one hand, he trapped them at the back of her waist, holding her within that arm.
With his free hand he trapped her jaw, angled her face so he could continue the kiss—draw it out until she was breathless. Then he shifted his lips to her temple, cruised over her ear and down to press a hot caress in the sensitive hollow beneath.
She murmured, and tried to shift into him. He held her back, kept at least an inch between their bodies. “Not yet,” he murmured, and ducked
his head, tipping her jaw so he could trace the long, arching line of her throat with his lips. She shuddered beneath the caress, and grew less rigid. More pliant. Willing to cede him the moment, to see what he wished to give her.
He pressed his lips to the pulse point at the base of her throat, felt more of her impatience fall away. Breathing in, he drew the scent of jasmine into his lungs, held it there, close to his heart.
Lifting his head, he found her lips again, kissed her again. Still slow, still hungry. Lowered his hand to her breast, let the warm mound fill his palm.
She reacted instantly—immediately wanted him to release her hands so she could sink them in his hair and set the pace. He knew, but still he held her, kept her hands trapped while he kneaded, while his fingers searched and, through the black silk crepe, found and circled her nipple.
Her kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, yet still he held her back. Forced her to feel his unhurried assessment of her bounty. He traced, stroked, ran his thumb over the furled peaks, until her breasts were swollen and firm, straining beneath the confining silk.
Only then did he consent to move on. It was the work of a minute to slip the black buttons closing her bodice free, releasing the pressure. Holding her to their kiss, he found the lacings at her back and swiftly undid them.
She sighed when he released her hands and slid her gown from her shoulders, down her arms, let it slide slowly down her slender body until it slithered over her hips and down her legs to puddle on the floor.
Leaving her clad only in her fine silk chemise and even finer silk stockings. And they were black, too—dark veils too insubstantial to fully screen her white skin. The filmy chemise shifting over her curves distracted him.
Letitia saw, and felt a spark of amazement lance through her desire. He’d seen her naked often enough; to see him transfixed now was a curious delight. She shifted, stretched, watched his eyes track her breasts, her hips, trace her waist through the screening chemise.
Setting one hand to his shoulder, she slipped off her slippers, stepped out of her discarded gown and into him.